


changing the view

by maelidify



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: 18+, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, varying feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 07:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17741648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelidify/pseuds/maelidify
Summary: A collection of ways Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston get it on, as prompted on tumblr.





	1. in the woods somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “You can be wearing a trashbag, and I’d still want you.” As prompted by x-voyevoda on tumblr.
> 
> Please don't read if you're under 18!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ll have you know these were all the rage in the 1800s,” she says, untying the prominent bustle pad worn by the rear, under all the skirts, to give her costume its silhouette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You can be wearing a trashbag, and I’d still want you.” Thanks, x-voyevoda!

While running through a forest (she has gotten so  _used_ to running through forests – who knew that specific skill set would be needed in her line of work?), it occurs to Lucy that she’d run a lot faster without all these  _layers_.

“What are you doing?” Flynn asks and she ignores him, trying to unhook her jacket while stumbling along. He grabs her elbow as she hurls the garment into a nearby river, watching as it is swallowed by the current. Hopefully that will throw their pursuers off.

They slow, the footsteps nowhere to be heard, and stumble into a cluster of trees, tall, grand redwoods that can hide a multitude of sins. Still feeling overdressed and hot ( _honestly_ , the way women dressed in the late 1800s), she unhooks her overskirt and fans herself, knowing she probably looks like a ridiculous mess.

Flynn peers around the corner, tense, but he eventually relaxes. Then his eyes meet hers and she’s a little too aware of the fact that they’re both breathing heavily (well – she is, anyway) and too-warm and… well, there’s a certain excitement to this job, sometimes.

She steps closer to him, savoring the heat of his body. When he swallows she stretches on her tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

It doesn’t take him long to respond; he nips softly at her lower lip and crowds her against a tree, hands gripping her waist and lifting her just slightly.

With a soft moan, she runs her hands up his chest, making to remove his jacket. The smile that shadows his face is animalistic, and he lowers his mouth to her ear while setting her down.

“We should get to the Lifeboat.”

Not the sexist turn of phrase. “The others can wait,” she responds, slipping the garment off his shoulders and savoring the solidity of his arms, the strength of his musculature.

He grins his assent and kisses her again, hands roaming down the rigid lines of her corset to her underskirt and unhooking it. Just when she’s about to reach for his growing arousal, he barks out a laugh.

“Sorry,” he says, gesturing at the undergarment the underskirt had peeled away to reveal, and Lucy finds herself laughing too.

“I’ll have you know these were all the rage in the 1800s,” she says, untying the prominent bustle pad worn by the rear, under all the skirts, to give her costume its silhouette. Out of context, it looks like a thick fanny pack worn over one’s ass. “The shape it gave women was considered extremely sexy.”

The sun is setting behind him, and his amused eyes are dark. “Turn around,” he says and she does, letting him untie the laces of her corset, gentle and relentless. He kisses her shoulder as he finishes, once and then again, slowly, as though he’s savoring the taste of her skin. This evokes a shudder of pleasure in her, and he sweeps her disheveled hair to the side.

“You don’t need any of it,” he says in her ear after pressing a soft kiss to its shell. She shivers; his fingers run down the length of her neck as he caresses her breast through the soft fabric of her chemise. “You could be wearing a trashbag and I’d still want you.”

“Mmm,” is all she can say as his hand slips under the chemise, and he cups her whole breast in his palm. “Fl…”

He presses her against him and she can feel his hardness pressing into her back. His other hand settles between her legs, and he slips one finger under her anachronistic underwear. Flynn is so good with his hands, and the pressure on her clit is gentle, too gentle. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Come on,” she mutters and he laughs behind her.

“Be patient,” he says, voice still low in that way he knows drives her crazy.

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” she points out, and turns around, pulling him down for a kiss. She is in control of this one, licking his mouth, appreciating the way he closes his eyes desperately, like a drowning man. But when she bites his ear he growls, lifting her and pressing her against the tree. Her thighs grip him and she leans down to unclasp his pants, taking him out.

“G… fuck,” she gasps as he enters her slowly, allowing her a moment to adjust to his size. They’ve only slept together a handful of times and there’s still a newness to it, a kind of dark excitement to their undeniable closeness.

She imagines he likes that he can make her swear; the low chuckle that accompanies the next thrust is proof. As they find a rhythm, their eyes lock and it’s that look that passes between the two of them that feels truly intimate, more vulnerable than the sex itself.

“Garcia,” she says, and she doesn’t know what she’s asking him. He’s inside her; he’s everywhere. He speeds up and she tugs his hair and he groans, whispering her name into her collarbone like a secret. After spilling inside her, he lets her down, rubbing at her clit until her world collapses and everything is white and shivery.

For a few moments, she leans against him, breathing him in. When she steps back and looks him in the eyes, the softness there is almost unbearable.

“You are everything,” he says softly, almost like an aside he doesn’t mean her to hear.

This is new, fragile, but there’s something about it that feels right. They’re well-acquainted with the pieces of darkness in one another, with the pieces of light.   
  
Touching his face, she doesn’t say it back, but she doesn’t have to. She’s sure he knows. 

 

 


	2. past reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d kissed before, furtive, clandestine, aware of their opposing sides, but this was different. Her entire body felt electric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” (Shout-out to gotta-love-garcy for the prompt!)

It’s funny how history works and, thinking about it, even stranger and more complicated now that it can overlap itself and change, factors shifting, chess pieces moving. Everything leads to everything else with such specificity and– anyway, history has arranged itself, somehow, to bring Lucy to this moment where she is in a hotel in 1971 and Garcia Flynn, wanted criminal, has his head buried between her thighs.

She didn’t exactly plan for this to happen. Their conversation had, perhaps, gotten heated–

(Perhaps it had something to do with the Apollo 14 mission he was trying to sabotage, perhaps it had something to do with the person she saw inside of him, the person who wasn’t an evil person even though he had done undoubtedly evil things…

And anyway, she kissed him first, thankful she’d found him in a hotel room and not some place more public. He froze and then his hand settled on her hair, hovering just over the curve of her skull. Both of them half-angry, mostly unsure.

He pulled away and his expression was unsure. Broken, almost. She felt it all the way to her ribcage, to the soles of her feet.

She said, “Let’s stop talking, Flynn.” Her voice was hoarse and when he kissed her, it was with such force that she found her back pressed against the door.

She moaned a little into his mouth, realizing just how long she’d _wanted_ this, and pushed him firmly by the shoulders, pressing him against the wall in turn. His hands found their way to her waist and– always a power struggle with them– he walked her to the bed, pressing her down and kissing her neck slowly. Something like longing in how he brushed his fingers across her jaw, down her shoulder…

She shivered with each touch, with each press of his mouth to her neck, her jaw, the juncture between neck and shoulder. They’d kissed before, furtive, clandestine, aware of their opposing sides, but this was different. Her entire body felt electric.

He tugged at her blouse before grunting in frustration and pausing to unbutton it. She breathed out a laugh that turned into something else as he ran his fingertips down her breast, slipping them under her bra (still not quite period-accurate, unfortunately) to gently tease her nipple.

“Flynn,” she gasped, arching into him.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive,” he rumbled. Something about his accent and how it lingered on the word _sensitive_ struck her as glorious, almost obscene. “I wonder where else…” 

And, smiling at her almost grimly, he trailed off to press kisses down her ribcage, down her stomach, gently rolling down her stockings…)

And anyway, here they are. His hands, pressing into her thighs, are hard, but when he kisses her inner thigh it is gentle, almost experimental. He turns his head to kiss the other one and when his nose brushes against her, she can’t help the half-whine that emerges.

“Shh,” he whispers against her skin and she stills as he presses a kiss to her hip and runs his thumb between her folds. A thin pang of longing is running through her like a string. When she runs her hand through his hair and tugs, he hisses, lifting his head to stare at her, eyes heavy with lust.

Then he dips his head again and licks a long, slow line between her labia.

Her breath catches. He is avoiding her clit, but after another lick, he slips a finger inside her. Something about it– him, her supposed enemy, and the way his eyes are always begging for something and the idea that he knows her in ways that should be impossible, and the fact that his finger is literally _inside_ her– is overwhelming and she squeezes her eyes shut, not wanting to lose control yet.

“Look at me, Lucy,” he says, lowly. Not one to be bested, to be commanded (who does he think he is?) she opens her eyes, glares down at him and tightens her grip on his hair.

His gaze is open, almost pleading. Like he doesn’t think he deserves her. She wonders who is in control here– is she keeping him from whatever he came back in time to do? Is he keeping her from stopping him? Is she overwhelming him, or is he just overwhelming her?

His hair tickles her pelvis as he ducks his head again, as he licks her clit with the flat of his tongue, again and again. He stops when she’s on the edge, slides another finger inside her, curving the both of them like hooks, and starts on her clit again until she sees white, until her legs tighten around him and she pulses around his fingers, crying out, letting loose an unrestrained part of her that knows how _right_ this is, him and her, his body unraveling her own–

When she comes down, he is sitting on the side of the bed. She sits up, rolls her stockings back up, fixes her skirt and her blouse.

They’re silent, and the distance is present, a third party in the room. She wonders, sliding the last button through its hollow, what machinations of time could possibly breach it. 


End file.
